


damaged goods

by susiecarter



Category: DC Extended Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extra Treat, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Canon, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 16:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21256157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: GQ gets caught in a trap. Croc gets him out—but it's not easy on either of them.





	damaged goods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wallflowering](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallflowering/gifts).

> I can never say no to GQ getting hurt a little, especially if the end result is true love. :D ♥ I hope all's well and that you like this, and happy Shipoween!

GQ pants, and digs his fingers into his thigh, and tries not to wonder what exactly he'd need to cut his own leg off.

The prospect's pretty fucking tempting right now. His teeth are gritted fit to crack, his jaw aching, but he can't talk himself into loosening up any, into _relaxing_. A hoarse little groan shreds itself apart in his throat anyway; he can't stop it, can't spare the attention to try. It feels like just about everything he's got is taken up with not—not screaming his fucking head off, not chewing through his own leg like a coyote.

He's been caught in this gigantic bullshit three-jawed bear trap from hell for—who even knows how long. Feels like a goddamn day, but it probably hasn't been more than an hour. It's just time's gone a little sideways on him, thin and far away and stretched out. He's in shock, he figures. He's come to that realization five or six times, by now, in the brief spasms of clarity where he surfaces from under the endless screaming pain of it. He's fucked himself way the fuck up, and he's in shock.

It's like his whole foot's gone, his whole leg; he's made out of nothing but white-hot agony now, from mid-thigh down. He's half out of his head with it. Sometimes—especially if he moves—it flares bright. He can't think, can't breathe. He can't do anything except lie there and wait mindlessly for it to stop. Sometimes he hears someone sob a little, thin, thready, like a scared kid. Sometimes he realizes his face is wet, realizes he can feel the blood spilling down his leg, pooling in his boot. Sometimes he can't feel anything at all, except the part where it fucking _hurts_.

He isn't sure it should hurt quite this much. It might be doing something to him; might be some kind of toxin involved, or a low-grade electric current that's keeping him tensed up, making his muscles clench helplessly around the teeth of it.

But even if he's right, he's got no way to make it stop. He can't get it off, can barely even stand to try—he's not strong enough to force it, his leverage is for shit, and jostling the jaws of it, the three double rows of huge metal teeth jammed into him, makes him want to fucking scream.

He doesn't, though. No point. Nobody's there, except probably the bad guys. It occurs to him idly, as if shouted to him from really far away, that maybe he'd be better off if they did find him. Maybe they'd just shoot him in the head, and end it.

But when he finally does look up and actually see somebody there, through his hot blurry eyes, it's not a bad guy.

Or at least not in his book, anyway: it's Killer Croc.

"Help," he gasps out. "Help, please—help me," and god, it should be embarrassing that he sounds so fucking desperate, so small and pathetic and pleading, and that he's doing it at _Croc_, of all people. Croc, who'd probably treat a trap like this like it was a pebble caught in his shoe; who'd have bent it back open and walked away without a scratch on him. No matter what happens to him, no matter what anybody does or says: undamaged. That's Croc.

But he's too goddamn relieved to be ashamed of himself. Croc's already crossing the corridor toward him, teeth bared, looking as pissed off as GQ's ever seen him.

GQ squeezes his eyes shut; they spill over, leave his cheeks wet, and he doesn't even care. God, _please_—

"Help me. Help me—"

"Shut up," Croc tells him, firm and quiet, steady; and GQ sucks in a wavering breath and tries hard to do it.

And then, no warning, the teeth of the trap move in him. The world goes white. He screams—doesn't open his mouth, traps it behind his teeth, but that's what it is. He screams, and he jerks reflexively, even though there's no getting away from the sensation; back, forward, up, down, it _all_ fucking hurts.

"No, no, god, stop—stop it, stop it—"

The pain eases back to the level of excruciating he's used to. It's quiet, all of a sudden. Drip of water against stone, rasp of his breath in his throat.

GQ keeps his eyes shut. He really doesn't want to look at his leg.

"Got to," Croc says, after a minute. "GQ, look at me."

GQ digs his teeth into his lip, and does it. Blinks his stinging eyes open, and Croc's looking right back at him, wary, intent.

"Got to do it," Croc repeats. "Got to."

GQ inhales, lets the breath back out nice and slow, and then tries feebly to get his fat head on straight again. "I know," he manages.

Because he does. Croc's got to get him out of this thing; it might even hurt less once he has. Or GQ will finally pass out. That would be fucking fantastic.

He knows Croc has to do it. It just—

It just hurts. Fuck, fuck, it hurts so much.

He closes his eyes again. "Do it," he says, steadier. "Do it. Don't listen to me. Okay?" He swallows hard, once, twice, convulsive. "I'm—I'm probably going to ask you to stop. I'm probably going to fucking beg you, man. So don't listen to me. Do what you got to do. All right?"

Croc doesn't answer. Just curls one of those big broad hands around the outside of GQ's thigh for a second, and squeezes a little.

And then he does it.

GQ does ask him to stop, does beg him. He's pissed off at himself for it, somewhere far away from where most of him is screaming on a wet stone floor; because god, it's annoying, his own thin screechy voice in his ears, reedy, endlessly repetitive. _Just shut the fuck up, you stupid bastard_, he wants to shout.

But he can't. He doesn't have the breath for it, and his mouth's busy mindlessly sobbing for Croc to stop hurting him, anyway.

Croc doesn't rush it. The metal's all slick with GQ's blood, and he's got to get a good grip, or he'll just end up having to listen to GQ caterwauling for even longer. The jaws of the trap snapped shut at the same time, but they seem to have come apart from each other—figures. Just to make it that much harder to get out of this thing.

So Croc's got six pairs of trap-jaws to pry apart, one at a time, with GQ shrieking in his ear while he does it.

God. It does hurt less once he's got them out; except what that really means is that the gaping wounds the teeth of the trap have left behind kind of fade out in comparison to the parts of it that are still—still _in_ him. For every bit Croc's freed him from, the rest just hurts even more. He can't stop shuddering, muscles twitching, making the metal of it scrape against the stone underneath him.

But Croc holds him still. Pins him down, braces him, and keeps going. Ignores his stupid pointless blubbering, and gets him the fuck out of the damn thing.

He doesn't pass out. There's a couple times where he thinks he might be about to, but the darkness doesn't get further than the edges of his vision, doesn't ever quite manage to pull him down.

And then, suddenly, there's only one set left to go. Croc's got hands on it, he's easing the halves apart where they'd stabbed in deep just over GQ's ankle; he's got them open; it's over.

GQ could fucking cry, except he pretty much already is.

"Oh, god," he hears himself say. "Oh, god." He just keeps gasping it, on a loop, inane.

But Croc doesn't seem to hold it against him. Croc doesn't seem to be holding any of it against him. He moves away just long enough to grab the fucking trap and bend it in half with a shriek of metal, smash it contemptuously into the stone wall so it clangs off and clatters down harmlessly onto the floor. And then he's back, and he picks GQ up. Lifts him off the floor, holds him curled up close against one of Croc's giant fucking shoulders. And it still hurts, of course it fucking does; but his cool steady hand cradling GQ's ruined leg is way, way better than having that thing closed on it.

GQ presses his face into the side of Croc's scaly throat, digs in with shaking fingers and hangs on. And usually he tries not to make a big deal out of—out of how much _more_ Croc is than him. He tries to keep up in whatever ways he can, tries to close the gap between them instead of highlighting it. Tries not to make a habit out of letting Croc carry him around like a doll.

But right then, it feels pretty goddamn good to know he's there, that he can handle this. That if anybody in the world isn't going to break a sweat over holding GQ together when he can't do it himself anymore, it's Croc.

GQ's going to be okay.

At least that's what they tell him. And he's willing to believe it, because his leg's still there. Bandaged up to hell and back, partial cast and pins and who knows what else. But it's still there, and it's only moderately excruciating to have it attached to him.

Honestly, he's actually a lot more worried about Croc than he is about his leg.

They mostly only _see_ each other when there's missions, or when GQ's got enough spare time to go through the frankly fucking tedious security procedure to get inside Belle Reve.

But Flag goes there all the time, making good on his deal with Deadshot, escorting the guy in and out so he can go see his kid. And when he does, he usually swings by to check in on the rest of them. Including Croc.

Way Flag tells it, the most Croc usually has to say to him is, "Tell GQ hey." But the thing is—Flag does it. Comes by, wherever GQ is, whatever he's doing, and raises his eyebrows this particular way, and says real studiously, "Hey," and that's how GQ knows he's been to Belle Reve lately, and that Croc's okay.

But ever since GQ woke up in here? Fuck-all. Flag's been by twice already; the first time, he didn't say anything one way or the other, and GQ figured maybe it had just slipped his mind or something. But the second time, GQ gets impatient and asks outright—and all Flag does is clear his throat and look away, and shrug one shoulder.

"I gave him ten minutes," he says at last. "He knew I was there. Didn't come out of the water. I don't know what to tell you, man."

So GQ's real good about his leg. Does exactly what the ARGUS doctors tell him to do, and doesn't do anything he's not supposed to, tells them how good he's feeling every time they ask.

And when he's finally rewarded for it with a whole lot of cautionary advice and a pair of crutches, the first thing he does is rope Flag into taking him to Belle Reve.

He thinks—he doesn't know what he thinks. Maybe Croc's freaked out about it. Maybe it was weird for him, seeing exactly how busted-up it's possible for GQ to get. Maybe he thought it was stupid, how GQ acted about it, the noises he made; how busted-up he got on the inside, too. GQ's not sure there's anything in the world that's capable of hurting Croc as bad as that motherfucking bear trap thing hurt him. But if there were—it's kind of hard to imagine Croc would beg anybody for anything, just to get it to stop.

GQ swallows.

Maybe he's decided he's only going to be buddies with dudes as badass as he is. Which basically means his options are narrowed down to, like, himself. But maybe that's the way he wants it.

Maybe GQ's going to stand outside his cell and see nothing but water till he leaves, just like Flag did.

But if that's how it's going to be, then—then he wants to know it. Give himself half a chance to get over it, before he's out in the field with Croc again.

So he ignores the awful fucking feeling in his stomach, and once they're in, he hitches his way down to Croc's cell, lowest level, deep as Belle Reve goes. He lets himself in like it's any other day, like he isn't leaning awkwardly on this stupid clumsy pair of crutches, like his heart's not pounding.

And for a second after he closes the cell door behind him, he thinks he was right. Croc's couch is empty, his TV off. The water's murky and quiet, still. And GQ'd dive in there looking for him, fuck the cast, except he's pretty sure that wouldn't help.

But then, somewhere way in the back, there's a splash. Ripple, after, and then—and then a couple vanes of water, wake, like something's moving just under the surface right ahead of them. And Croc's scaly head breaks the surface, and he's—jesus, he's really moving, GQ has time to think, before Croc's already splashing up out of the water, crossing the concrete in two big strides, reaching out and knocking GQ backward into the cell bars.

Not hard, not really. Croc could put him through the cell bars—could put him through the _concrete_—if he tried. Just enough that GQ hits them, rattles them a little.

"The hell," Croc growls out.

"Uh, I could say the same, man," GQ says, blinking at him. "What the fuck? You got a problem with me?"

Croc's jaw works. "Go away," he snaps at last, shoves at GQ again and then stomps off. Not far or anything, not back into the water; just moving, restless.

And if that's how he's going to be about it, then fine. "Great to see you, too," GQ says brightly. "Yeah, wow, I'm really glad you're not dead either! It was nice of you to stop by—"

Croc hisses through his teeth, real pissed-off-sounding, and rounds on GQ again. He looks tense, hunted.

He looks upset.

"Dude," GQ says slowly. "Seriously, are you okay?"

Croc goes still and stares at him, pale steady eyes, unblinking. "Me," he repeats.

"Yeah, man. If there's something wrong with you, just tell me what it is. We can get somebody over here to check you out—somebody from ARGUS, I know you don't like the doctor they got here—"

Croc bares his teeth, hisses again.

Okay, maybe that's not it.

And then he says, real quiet and rumbly, "You aren't scared."

GQ frowns at him. "Of you? No. I mean, not more than I'm scared of anything else that could rip me in half but probably won't. Are you _pissed off_ about that?"

He can admit it, he's kind of—hurt. And also confused, because it's been a while. A _long_ while. If it's been bothering Croc all along, the way GQ treats him, the way GQ talks to him, how casual GQ is about laughing at him or, like, touching him—well. GQ wishes he'd known, that's all.

But Croc growls a little deep in his throat, huffs, and doesn't say _Yeah, exactly, you nailed it_. So maybe that's not it either.

"Everybody else," Croc grits out. "They know. They know what I could do to them."

"Well, yeah—"

"They know. That's enough."

GQ narrows his eyes, and wets his lips. He's starting to think he gets where this is going, and he's not sure he likes it. "Enough to make them scared of you," he fills in. "Is that it?"

Croc looks at him and then away, and bunches up his fists. "Don't hurt them," he says. "Don't need to. They know."

GQ swallows. "But then you got me out of that trap. And you hurt me. You hurt me a lot, and you wouldn't stop, even though I was screaming at you to."

Because sure, okay: it must have seemed like some kind of fluke. Like GQ alone, out of everybody, didn't have the common fucking sense to be afraid of Killer Croc. And Croc had put up with him—because GQ remembers how it was at first, how _bewildered_ Croc seemed by GQ coming by to see him, talking to him, hanging out to watch BET. Croc had put up with him, and gotten used to him, and maybe—

Maybe even kind of liked him.

And then Croc had hurt him. Croc had hurt him a lot—probably hadn't ever seen him in that much pain before, because yeah, he'd almost died under Midway, but if he had it would have been quick and quiet. Not like that, fish on a hook, writhing his way to the end by degrees.

Wasn't a surprise, really, that he'd decide that had to be enough to do the trick. That maybe GQ didn't get it, and GQ had kept on not getting it because he'd never hurt GQ with his own two hands before; but now he had, and GQ _would_ get it, and there was nothing he could do about it. Like a kid touching a hot stove: GQ would finally have learned his lesson, and he'd know better than to come near that stove again.

"Man, I _told_ you to do that. I knew what it was going to take to get me out of there. And I'm—I'm lucky as fuck that there was somebody there who could do what it was going to take, okay? I'm _lucky_ it was you, and that you give enough of a shit to keep saving my dumb ass all the time. Jesus, I—"

GQ has to stop then, shakes his head and lifts up a hand to rub his mouth, because he can't fucking figure out how to say it. He's not sure there are even words for it, really. How goddamn relieved he is, that it wasn't something wrong with Croc after all—or something about GQ, something he'd done wrong and couldn't fix. And that Croc thought it was something _he'd_ done wrong and couldn't fix, that GQ was never going to come back here again, makes something get all tight in his chest so he almost can't breathe. That Croc had maybe thought it even back there in that dank-ass stone hallway—that he'd thought it, and then he'd gone and done what he'd done anyway, expecting GQ to hate him for it—

God. He can hardly even get his head around it.

"You brought this on yourself," he says aloud, at last. "Okay? I just want to be clear about that. You have no one to blame for this but you," and then he hobbles a half-step forward with one crutch, leaves the other leaning against the cell bars behind him—because he's going to need a hand free, if he's going to tilt Croc's face down far enough to kiss him.

Croc makes a funny, puzzled little face, eyes starting to cross as GQ gets closer, like he can't figure out what the hell GQ thinks he's doing. So GQ's grinning, laughing under his breath, and it's not really much of a kiss at first.

But Croc's seen kissing on TV, even if nobody's ever tried it on him before. He hisses a little in surprise when GQ's mouth touches his, and then GQ kisses him harder—licks along the scales at the corner of his mouth, which he seems to like okay, and then bites him in the lip, which he seems to like even better.

He bites back, because of course he does. Sharp teeth; hurts a little.

GQ smiles into it and doesn't pull away, and wonders dimly how he's going to explain it to Medical if he needs stitches in his lip.


End file.
